PS 
3537 


SRLF 


RESURGENCE 


RESURGENCE 


BY 


LESLIE  G.  SHAW 


35-37 


NEW  YORK 
MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


Copyright,  1922, 

by 
MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  by 

The   Barnes   Printing  Co.,   Inc. 
229  W.  28th  St.,  N.  Y. 


To 
JOAN 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

RESURGENCE  11 

A  LEGEND   13 

ADVENTURER    14 

IN  A  STORAGE  HOUSE 15 

THE  PURPLE  DECADENCE  OF  1890 18 

ANTIPHONY    20 

IVORY  TOWER    22 

ANNUNCIATION  23 

A  COMPANION  24 

THE  CRICKETS 25 

Two  FRIENDS   26 

FRA  LIPPI'S  NUN 27 

To  A  POET 28 

MEDIAEVAL  WANDERER'S  SONG 29 

A  GIVER  OF  GOOD  GIFTS 30 

LOVE  AND  DEATH 32 

FAILURE    33 

DA  VINCI'S  HEAD  OF  CHRIST 34 

SUBCONSCIOUS   35 

SUPPLICATION 36 

AGAINST  DEATH  POMP 37 

THE  ALCHEMIST    38 

BEATRICE  D'ESTE  To  A  LOVER 39 

THE  SUICIDE  41 

To  A  SEAMAN 42 

NEUROSES  44 

THE  UNDYING  .  45 


SYMBOLIC   47 

THE  MOTHER  48 

THE  LIVING  DEAD 49 

REST  50 

WASTE   51 

To  52 

LISA  GIOCONDA   54 

To  A  WOOD  THRUSH 56 

CHALLENGE   57 

A  MEDIAEVAL  PORTRAIT 58 

To 59 

FORGIVENESS    60 

NOCTURNE  AFTER  CHOPIN 61 

THE  ISLES  OF  THE  BLEST 62 


RESURGENCE 


RESURGENCE 

nnHERE  was  a  time  when  ever  gloriously 
JL  Unto  my  heart  a  music,  as  in  prophecy, 
Sang  down  the  years — A  magic  golden  horn, 
Heralding  a  valiant  pageantry  at  morn, 
When  yellow  banners  rose  in  gallant  praise 
Of  the  mighty  forward  march  of  conquering  days. 
And  then,  as  brief  and  brilliant  as  a  dying 

sun, 
Bronze  tones  and  blazoned  banners  faded  and 

were  done. 

Then  others  said  to  me,  Be  now  mature, 
Pass  by  the  myths  of  childhood,  find  the  lure 
Of  adolescence  but  illusions  mask, 
And  measure  to  the  stature  of  an  adult  task. 
I  spoke  in  scorn,  It  was  a  voice  of  truth 
I  heard ;  Not  one,  as  yours,  in  error  spoke  to  soothe 
Me  into  lethargy,  and  so  be  brought 
Into  your  stuffy  chambers  of  sick  thought. 

And  denying  ever  its  alloy 

Still  was  I  forsaken  of  old  joy. — 
Now  fled  the  virgin  rapture  of  sweet  Spring, 
And  Autumn's  fragrant  mellowness — The  sting 
Of  keen  response  to  earth  that  one-time  surged 
Like  April  sap  in  maples,  upward — urged, 
Had  passed,  as  fleeting  as  a  bird  on  wing. 
Something  was  gone,  and  it  was  everything. 


As  if  I  swam  and  sank  in  oily  waves, 
I  knew  only  oblivion  that  laves 
The    weary    mind    with    peace    and    murmuring 
sound, 

[11] 


And  visions  swift;  And  in  soft  treachery  bound, 

I  could  not  free  myself,  until  at  length, — 

And  years  it  may  have  been  that  passed — the 

strength 
Of  great  extremity  arose  in  me. 

1  heard  afar  a  rustling  melody, 

A  living  symphony  of  hidden  things, 

Of  crickets  chirping  near  green  leaves,  Of  wings 

That  swiftly  beat  the  perfumed  air  in  flight, 

And  little  buds  singing  their  way  to  light. 

It  trembled  in  my  ear  as  the  muted  roar 

Of  waves  on  a  dear  and  long-forgotten  shore. 

I  wept  with  joy,  and  then  I  surely  rose 

As  by  a  miracle;  And  where  I  chose, 

I  walked  upon  the  languorous  waves,  whose  power 

Had  grown,  mist-like,  illusion  in  that  hour; 

I  cried,  Now  have  I  wakened  from  a  dream, 

Have  seen  the  falsehood  in  its  lambent  gleam. 

And  even  as  I  spoke,  the  conquering  song, 

Trumpeted  in  golden  horn  so  long, 

Swelled  to  diapason,  and  glowing,  hung 

Like  clouds  of  fire  upon  the  air,  and  flung 

A  rhythmic  challenge  to  the  listening  sea, 

And  sent  forth  tidings,  not  of  victory 

That  was  to  be,  but  victory  that  was, 

Over  death,  and  sleep  more  dark,  and  ills  that 

pass. 

And  it  confirmed  the  steady  faith  that  wills, 
The  everlasting  stars,  the  little  hills. 
"Beauty  for  ashes,"  it  sang;  a  long  re-birth; 
Joy  renewed  at  the  mother-breast  of  earth. 


[12] 


A   LEGEND 

SHE  was  a  lover  of  beauty, 
And  she  wanted  to  write  of  beautiful  things — 
"Of  old,  unhappy  far-off  things," 
She  called  them. 

At  any  rate  they  were  nowhere  near. 
But  the  neighbor's  player-pianos  on  the  little  side 

street 

Hammered  out  jazz,  or  else 
They  played  "Burning  of  Pompeii." 
And  then  there  were  talking  machines,  of  course. 
And  in  the  summer  evenings 
The  tremulous  bleating  of  a  cornet 
Essayed  futilely  to  find  "The  Lost  Chord." 
The  children  fought  lustily  in  the  streets, 
And  their  mothers  talked  over  porch  railings  of 

sales 

On  georgette  crepe  and  granite  ware.  .  .  . 
And  a  deadly  pall  clouded  her  vision. 

Until  one  day  she  remembered 

That  the  king  of  men  had  moved 

Understandingly  among  all  people 

And  had  spoken  to  them  in  parables 

And  had  shared  in  immeasurable  love 

Their  pleasures  or  their  grief. 

And  then  she  thought  that  many  years  ago 

The  futile  cornetist  was  a  shepherd 

Piping  to  Syrian  hills, 

And  the  shrill-voiced  women 

Were  the  madonnas  of  many  an  ancient  twilight, 

Painted  by  old  masters. 

[13] 


ADVENTURER 

EVER  you  wooed  vicarious  romance 
Wore  gallantly  and  with  a  royal  mien 
Your  robes  of  poverty  as  you  had  been 
The  chosen  of  some  mighty  circumstance. 
And  in  a  bark  absurdly  frail  you  rode 
Triumphantly  and  sure  uncharted  seas — 
Untutored  quite,  yet  with  consummate  ease 
You   braved    high    storms,    when    lordly   giants 

strode 

Across  black  battling  clouds — and  asked  no  rest. 
With  demon  courage  and  a  faith  sublime 
You  sailed  beyond  the  rocks  for  some  strange 

clime 

That  even  you,  afar,  might  not  have  guessed. 
Whatever  port  it  may  have  proved,  we  knew 
Who  knew  your  simple  craft,  that  first  land-fall 
Was  made  with  colors  flying,  spite  of  squall 
Or  calm,  and  that  romance  awaited  you. 


[14] 


IN  A  STORAGE  HOUSE 

REMARKABLE  how  clear  my  mind  is, 
As  to  detail. — 

"No,  this  picture  is  numbered  38," 
I  tell  the  skilled  packer,  appallingly  efficient. 
And  I  think  how  I  bought  the  picture, 
One  golden  afternoon  in  Florence, 
And  judged  just  how  it  might  wonderfully  be 

placed 

Above  a  little  lacquered  table. 
"Yes,  that  goes  to  the  auction  rooms, 
Along  with  35  and  37. 
That  percolator — 0,  send  it  too; 
It  may  bring  a  beggar's  dime  or  so." 
"But,  lady — I'll  give  you  a  dime  for  it." 
I  attend  vaguely  to  such  subtle  degradation — 
"Why,  how  absurd  of  you — keep  it,  of  course, 
And  that  kitchen  ware — and  any  of  those  little 

things." 

I  think  ironically  how  cheaply  bought 
Is  this  new  aura  of  munificence. 
"And  this?    Certainly  you  may  have  it; 
Take  it  to  your  wife. 
You  have  a  wife?"    0,  yes,  he  had. 
Most  men  had  wives,  I  reflected. 
Perhaps  some  even  loved  them. — 
I  wonder  how  rapidly  and  well 
An  infant  cynicism  grows  these  days. — 
These  packers,  they  need  any  little  scrap 
They  can  gain  from  the  debris 


[15] 


Of  shifting  or  of  broken  homes. 

It  was  just  as  well,  no  doubt,  they  didn't  know 

How  proudly  that  was  bought,  how  joyfully  this. 

Such  a  dingy  and  disordered  kind  of  work 

It  must  be  for  them. 

Seeing  always  unbuilding — their  minds 

Must  be  crushed  under  mountains 

Of  stray  detail — amazingly  anomalous 

Are  these  desk  contents,  heaped  on  the  floor. 

"And  just  one  thing  more — Yes,  I've  given  you 

The  address  for  all  these  different  lots. 

And  now  that's  done,  for  all  of  us." 

I  tell  myself  there's  nothing  left 

And  the  memory  will  be  cut  clean 

Like  a  most  admirable  surgical  wound. 

Very  cordially  they  take  me  to  the  elevator. 

The  percolator  no  doubt  did  that. 

Somehow  even  the  manager  exudes  cordiality. 

"Well,  we  don't  usually  take  checks, 

But  we'll  take  yours." 

And  my  demon-clear  mind 

That  works  so  well  when  nearest 

The  abyss  of  pain,  records,  like  a  camera 

His  heavy  jowls  and  kindly  eyes. 

He  had  need  for  kindness,  in  this  business, 

He  who  saw  so  much  of  wreckage 

And  guessed  much  more,  that  wasn't  there  to  see. 

And  as  the  demon-camera  mind  works  on, 

Stray  flashes  come  from  nowhere,  unbidden — 

A  puzzled  child  asking  her  mother 


[16] 


One  sultry  Sunday  afternoon,  to  explain 

What  she  had  learned  that  day 

About  a  house  built  on  the  sands — 

And  a  young  girl  in  a  street-car, 

Going  to  work, 

From  whose  coral  lips  came, 

In  nasal  nonchalance, 

"0,  well,  the  first  hundred  are  the  hardest!" 


[17] 


THE  PURPLE  DECADENCE  OF  1890 
(Suggested  by  Holbrook  Jackson's  "The  1890' s") 

A  THOUSAND  strange  and  curious  stones  in 
laid 
And   wrought   in    fretted   gold — that   flash    and 

grow; 

In  each  new  light  a  warm  and  different  glow — 
And  scented  peacock  feathers  strangely  made. 

Brocaded  robes  and  robes  of  pearly  frost 
And  velvet  cloaks  and  noble  hats  with  plumes 
That  undulate  and  vary  as  a  flower  that  blooms, 
And  pass  'neath  palace  doors  with  arms  embossed, 
Or  ride  in  glittering  equipage  to  gaze 
Upon  the  picturesque  and  poor,  that  throng 
The  London  streets — those  Juliets  of  chance 
Those  passing  Venuses  of  red  romance 
Who  smile  and  dally  as  they  pass  among 
Old  scarlet  poets  of  new  and  perverse  ways. 

The  gentle  dandy  poetizing  down  the  strand 
Who  later  clothed  in  Sapphic  dressing-gown 
Writes  those  brave  sonnets  that  the  rich  demand 
Or  for  a  nod  from  some  Earl  plays  the  clown. 

Lean  hectic  youths  who  tavernwards  are  bound 
In  search  of  peripatetic  days  of  lore 
When  sages  gathered  at  the  tavern  door 
To  see  in  wine  what  wisdom  could  be  found. 


[18] 


A  thousand  books  in  bindings  rare  and  mellow 
With  pages  made  unique  with  black  and  white 
And  magazines  bound  in  a  classic  yellow 
To  put  decorum  in  a  proper  fright. 

The  palace  of  varieties  new  born 
Where  gathered  minor  bards  who  sang  the  charms 
Of  dancing  wenches,  as  of  Helen,  until  morn 
Then  wrote  in  anguished  verse  of  empty  arms. 
And  "art  for  art"  that  grew  strange  hot-house 

flowers, 
And  made  a  murm'rous  music  for  the   dreary 

hours. 


[19] 


ANTIPHONY 

OGOD,  thou  hast  laid  me  low 
I  bow  my  head  before  thy  wrath, 
As  a  broken  tree  before  a  mighty  wind. 
But  I  will  comfort  thee. 

My  deeds  are  scattered  in  the  dusi. 
And  no  good  comes  of  them. 
My  friends  have  forsaken  me. 
Believe  in  me. 

Nay,  I  will  deny  thee 
For  thou  hast  forsaken  me; 
I  will  dig  deep  into  my  own  heart  for  comfort. 
/  am  the  living  God. 

I  will  dig  deep  into  the  giant  man 
Caged  in  me 

Like  a  mighty  beast  in  fetters. 
/  am  thy  strength. 

I  will  proclaim  my  greatness. 
Men  shall  know  that  the  beast  is  unfettered. 
They  will  flee  before  his  strength. 
Thou  shalt  love  thy  brother. 

Nay,  I  love  him  not. 
I  shall  conquer  him: 
He  shall  tremble  in  fear  before  me. 
Man's  wrath  availeth  not. 


[20] 


If  wrath  availeth  not, 
If  sin  slay  itself, 
What  shall  prevail? 
Love  shall  prevail. 

But  my  brother  loves  me  not; 
He  has  mocked  me. 
My  heart  is  6ore  against  him, 
Love  begets  love. 

I  cannot  love :  my  faith  is  dead. 
I  see  no  beacon,  rising  calm 
Above  the  seething  waves  of  discord. 
Thy  faith  shall  be  renewed. 

0  God,  that  I  might  abandon  myself 

As  a  seaman  to  the  waves, 

And  let  thy  kindness  bear  me  up. 

Thou  shalt,  for  thou  hast  so  desired. 


[21] 


IVORY    TOWER 

IN  silver  cloth  and  frosted  robes  you  sate 
And  mused  how  strange  the  sounds  that  came 

and  went 

Or  how  in  clam'ring  haste  the  days  were  spent 
Beyond  the  quiet  of  your  chateau  gate, 
Where  now  forewarned  all  Spring  did  lay  in  wait 
The  trellised  roses  bearing  high  their  scent 
To  you,  entowered,  who  heeding  never  fate 
Saw  youth  go  daily  by  and  no  lament. 

In  splendour  drew  and  wavered  in  the  park 
A  fragrant  shadow  holding  still  faint  gleam 
Of  sunset's  warmth,  and  glowed,  till  like  a  dream 
All  vanished  and  the  castle  lay  in  dark. 
And  as  a  barren  breeze  blew  round  the  town, 
You  drew  your  robes  about  you  and  came  down. 


122] 


ANNUNCIATION 

LIES  beauty  in  all  things. 
Now  to   a   barren   world   of  freshly   riven 

wounds 

Comes  virgin  proof  of  life  that  still  abounds 
And    from    some    mystic    teeming-source    still 

springs. 

The  race  is  not  yet  run. 
All  is  not  said ;  nor  sealed  to  hope  the  gates 
While  loveliness  in  hiding,  potent  waits 
On  that  high  time  when  birth  shall  have  begun. 
Be  not  to  Isis  so  unjust  as  to  deny 
A  fitting  spring-time  measure  of  deep  joy! 

Where  mountain  heights  are  set  in  mist  of  dreams 

And  rhododendrons  show  pale  bloom 

Against  an  April  sky.    And  woodland  gloom 

Gives  interval  of  vagrant  happy  streams, 

And  old  grey  rocks  above  the  heath 

Guard  this  dim  valley's  twilight  rest — 

There  Spring  bids  us  be  still,  that  we  attest 

Her  living  triumph  over  death. 

That  she  may  new-world  intimations  give 

Of  all  that  dies  and  still  does  live. 


[23] 


A    COMPANION 

YOUR  thoughts,  like  fireflies  glimpsed  at  dusk, 
and  lost, 

And  seen  again,  and,  leading  through  still  groves 
Now  wrapped  in  scented  solitude,  where  roves 
A  wind  before  the  rain — a  faery  host — , 
Beguile  me  into  phantasy  of  foreign  lands; 
And  from  dim  shores  comes  an  old  wail  of  men 
Barbaric,  in  strange  splendor,  or  again 
I  feel  the  fire  of  sun  on  patient  sands. 

And  on  enchanted  seas  I  voyage  where 
Arises  new  temples  and  new  shrines  of  art, 
And  men  thrill  to  new  learning  with  one  heart 
That  through  the  ages  they  may  torches  bear. 
Yours  is  the  magic  word  that  bids  me  roam, 
And  yours,  the  steady  lamp  that  lights  me  home. 


[24] 


THE    CRICKETS 

YOU  sing  of  things  of  olden  times 
And  magic  seas  in  twilight  lands 
Of  drooping  sky  and  white-stretched  sands 
And  rhyming  tongues  in  witching  climes. 
How  is  it  that  your  monotone 
Leaves  me  enchanted,  and  alone? 


[251 


TWO    FRIENDS 

YOU  were  a  guest  invited  to  a  feast 
For  whom  we  brought  choice  stores 
And  placed  them  consciously  to  please 
That  you  might  find  a  worthy  board. 

You  .   .   .  You  entered  by  the  open  door 
And  sat  with  us  the  while  we  spoke 
Of  simple  things  .    .    .  and  shared  our  bread, 
A  silent  blessing  in  your  love. 


[26] 


FRA    LIPPFS    NUN 

THOU  lovely  one! 
An  age  of  naive  peace 
And  innocence,  with  un-increase 
Of  harm — still  nun — 
About  thee  lies. 
Life's  fairest  gift  of  fruit 
And  knowingness  find  shallow  root 
In  virgin  place  .    .    .  For  eyes 
Hast  thou  to  see  a  measured  plane. 
Still  unaware  with  sweet  tranquility 
And  mild  assurance  of  no  part 
In  worldlings  motley  train. — 
As  in  deep  cloistered  hush,  with  rarest  art 
Of  quietude,  eternal  be! 


[27] 


TO   A  POET 

BRIGHT  child  and  free  of  Greek  and  glorious 
age, 

Spirit  from  its  ampler  time  far-strayed, 
An  Attic  mind  swift-flashing  as  a  blade 
Through  time-worn  myths  of  mediocre  gage — 
In  you,  Prometheus  like,  a  hint  of  rage 
And  impotence,  when  virile  thought  not  weighed 
To  mellowness  bids  your  fine  raptures  fade 
Before  reality — life's  barren  stage — 
A  cynic  hand  upon  a  youthful  dream. 
Still  may  you  paint  in  colors  rich  as  wine 
Your  pagan  dance  where  softly  plays  the  gleam 
Of  polished  limb  against  the  laden  vine, 
Until  at  length  from  life's  long-stagnant  stream 
You  draw  anew  old  beauty  to  be  mine. 


[281 


MEDIAEVAL  WANDERER'S  SONG 

THE  open  road  is  my  abode 
And  wandering  is  my  sweetest  rest; 
New  paths  I  roam  my  only  home 
And  every  bird  and  beast  my  guest. 
And  as  I  rove  I  widely  love — 
I  wear  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve 
And  it  is  lost  at  no  great  cost — 
Who  gains  so  much  might  never  grieve — . 
For  one  new  moon  I  count  a  boon 
And  every  star  a  new  allure; 
I  woo  this  flower  and  every  hour 
I  find  it  most  amazing  pure. 
Who  finds  lost  gleams  in  sunset  streams 
Or  greets  the  dawn  beyond  the  hill 
May  with  me  fare  and  all  things  share, 
And  stay  or  leave  me  at  his  will. 


[29] 


A  GIVER  OF  GOOD  GIFTS 

Beauty  is  a  gift — Gautier 

HE  said — You  are  all  wondrous  fair 
No  such  stars  in  heaven,  as  in  your  eyes 
Made  quiet  by  lashes-dusk.    And  your  hair 
Holds  light  of  purple  and  rare  bronze,  and  lies 
Close  by  your  cheek  in  truest  symmetry 
Of  waves,  that  shine  in  secret,  sudden  lights, 
Or  merge  into  a  softest  cloud. — One  fittingly 
To  frame  a  nun's  white  brow.    Or  else  affrights 
Your  calmer  moods  with  tempestuous  swirl 
And  wantonness  of  brown  and  scornful  curl. 

You  are  no  thing  of  one  dull  patterning 

Like  unto  a  day  of  all  drear  clouds,  or  one 

Of  same  stint,  changeless  measure,  lightning 

Only  the  cloud  to  bright  and  wearisome  sun. 

Never  from  elfish  art 

Might  graceful  wit  thus  stray; 

Alike  of  sun  and  shade  you  take  a  part 

To  fashion  your  unique  and  charming  day. 

Cool  rains  and  April-misted  nights,  and  blue 

Thin  skies  and  Autumn  fires  are  all  a  part  of  you. 

Your  voice  conveys  to  me  the  sound  of  water,  sing 
ing 

In  far  and  happy  places;  and  the  mouth  that 
frames 

Sweet  words  has  magic  power  of  bringing 

Light  to  dead  discourse  that  slower  logic  lames. 

Of  wit  and  art  and  beauty  you  are  wholly  made. 

Nor  one,  nor  any  other  part  does  so  outvie  the 
other 

[30] 


That  any  needsome  grace  is  placed  in  shade 
Or  man  is  left  with  power  to  fancy  yet  another. 
I  know  no  swinish  man,  in  courtesy 
So-called,   who  worthy  of  your  slightest  whim 
might  be. 

Your  breasts  are  white,  and  sweeter  yet  the  soul 
Of  broadly  loving  youth,  that  charity  to  all 
Does  daily  know  and  practice.    And  so,  whole 
In  being,  builds  between  the  two  no  stunting  wall. 
Soft  are  your  hands  and  shapen  so 
That  music  drawn  from    ivory    keys,    through 

power 

In  them,  is  treble  prized.    And  low 
And  hush't  each  melody  of  your  enchanted  hour. 
And  so  faint  music  runs  through  all  your  days 
And  dims  with  sorcery  your  matchless  ways. 

And  yet,  poor  man,  he  grossly  lied 

In  all  but  this,  his  faith.    For  ever 

Has  it  been  to  man  denied 

In  love,  the  truth  and  seeming  to  dissever. 

Grace  might  have  been,  and  was,  no  doubt 

As  grace  in  woman  goes.    But  had  he  known 

Himself,  the  artist's  art  he  had  found  out. 

Then  birth  might  he  have  given  to  fool's  groan — 

For  thus  it  is,  in  conjuring  charms,  the  lover 

Fails  he  never.    He  wishes  for,  bespeaks 

A  gift  (It  grows  to  being,  and  another 

From    depths    unknown,    an    Aphrodite    rises). 

Seeks 

Vari-coloured  passion  from  the  buoyant  springs 
His  own;  and  straightway  thanks  unto  his  lady 

sings! 


LOVE   AND   DEATH 

NOW,  Death,  I  greet  you  with  a  willing  Yea ! 
Desiring  nothing  here  on  earth,  I  yearn 
For  still  and  slumb'ring  places,  for  this  day 
I've  drunk  life  deep:  her  fires  no  longer  burn. 


Forever  in  a  twilight  realm  I'd  hold 

Close  to  my  heart  the  wondrous  murm'ring  voice 

Of  you,  who,  knowing  dim  ultimate  things, 

Proclaimed  us  one,  and  near  you  drew  the  wings 

Of  rare  and  holy  angels  who  rejoice 

When  earth's   dull  chains  of  use  and  want  do 

break 

And  earth's  mean  blasphemies  of  facile  love 
Are  silenced  in  victorious  cries  that  shake 
The  pillars  of  love's  temple  where  now  move 
Old   priests   who   cower   and   mumble   toothless 

prayer 

That  their  dull  creeds  and  rites  shall  still  enslave. 
.  .  .  Dead  futile  art — for  in  your  love  you  bear 
Kich  ageless  alchemies  that  time's  lies  brave. 


No  more  I'll  turn  and  fret  at  prison  bars 
Of  sense — With  you,  a  living  flame,  I  rise 
Beyond  all  human  touch,  and  singing  stars 
I  move  among  in  night's  eternal  skies. 
No  more  I'll  chafe,  imprisoned  in  life's  dream — 
In  earth  or  heaven  is  no  thing  can  change 
This  splendid  moment  as  it  towers  supreme 
Guarded  in  mysteries  beyond  life's  range. 
Now  feeling  all,  with  striving  all  forgot 
With  your  high  soul  attained,  I  long  for  rest. 
Come  Death!  and  wean  me  from  such  empty  lot, 
My  lips  are  hungry  for  still  Lethe's  breast. 
[32] 


FAILURE 

I  SOUGHT  to  veil  in  robes  of  mirth,  true  sight 
That  cried  all  false  the  fevered  path  of  days, 
Bearing  rich  thought  before  them  in  a  maze 
Of  sound  and  colour  ceasing  not  for  night. 
Unto  my  heart  I  counselled,  pluck  this  thing 
Forever  out;  make  lyric  your  high  power 
To  gild  each  day  and  quicken  every  hour 
Until  grief's  knell  you  herald  as  you  sing. 

My  heart  surged  up  with  promise  of  old  strength 

And  strove  your  well-loved  image  to  efface 

Made  for  itself  a  palace  of  new  grace 

And  cried  a  splendid  victory  at  length. 

And  still  as  roses  spring  beneath  their  grave, 

In  sleep,  Beloved,  my  heart  you  still  enslave. 


[33] 


DA  VINCI'S   HEAD   OF   CHRIST 

SO  simple  in  thy  clarity 
That  with  mere  color  and  mean  brush 
Wrought  has  he,  in  pale  transparency, 
Spirit  on  cold  stone :  singing  faith  in  chapel  hush. 

Here  are  no  thorns ;  no  cross : 

Only  in  triumph  meek,  that  love 

That  was  reviled  of  men  and  knew  no  loss 

And  from  death  rose,  that  it  might  prove 

The  kingdom  that  dies  not:  nor  has  birth 
But  is  and  was,  and  so  shall  be 
Whole  in  itself,  nor  any  dearth — 
Knowing  no  wrong  in  its  rich  purity. 

Some  cry,  But  is  a  victor  there? 
See  that  wan  face  in  very  agony 
Of  death:  a  bleeding  heart  laid  bare. 
No  victory  his  own.     The  betrayer,  his  Gethse- 
mane. 

Flesh  not  the  conqueror.    White 
Winged  faith  the  power.    In  proof  true 
To  an  ancient  promise  for  the  night, 
"If  it  were  not  so,  I  would  have  told  you." 


[34] 


SUBCONSCIOUS 
The  Coward 

I   STOOD  beside  a  door  where  filtered  through 
A  glorious  bar  of  light  foretelling  vast 
And  airy  avenues,  far-winding,  past 
Dusty  plains  to  fields  hill-set  and  new. 
I  longed  for  high  adventure,  longed  to  find 
The  promised  tang  of  freedom  down  those  roads 
Beyond  the  door ;  to  seek  out  strange  abodes 
And  volatile,  roam  with  the  spring-time  wind. 

I  pressed  against  the  door  with  unsure  hand 
Though  knowing  full  the  strength  of  my  desire 
To  sense  the  wonders  hid,  to  feel  the  fire 
Of  ardent  strength  adventuring  down  the  land. 
Yet  held  by  bonds  of  some  drear  natal  shore, 
Unfelt  till  now,  I  faltered,  closed  the  door. 


[35] 


SUPPLICATION 

DREAD  hold  of  night,  I  ask  surcease 
Of  your  unasked  dominion  over  that  far  land 
Where  nightly  I  am  borne  by  your  strong  hand 
And  pray  an  unimpassioned  peace. 

Fill  not  my  heart  with  whisperings 
Of  ghostly  days,  and  happy  days 
Break  not  night-calm  with  whisperings 
Of  love  that  comes,  and  never  stays ! 


[36] 


AGAINST    DEATH    POMP 

STAY  the  barbaric  hand, 
Veil  the  profaning  eye. 
Let  the  dead  dust  be  dead 
And  bury  it  quietly,  quietly. 

Blaspheme  not,  when  life  has  fled 
Cherish  only  the  vital  memory 
Let  the  dead  dust  be  dead 
And  bury  it  quietly,  quietly. 


[37] 


THE    ALCHEMIST 

SEEK  not  to  make  clear-known  to  thee 
All  the  tortuous  ways  of  life 
For  wisdom  as  apart  from  the  blind  strife 
And  need  of  nature  can  no  profit  be. 
Great  heights  are  there  to  climb. 
These  shall  ye  know,  when  blossoms  each  high 
time. 

Till  then,  know  only  that  does  urging  press 
Deep  pregnant  meaning  to  thy  radiant  own. 
Turns  to  a  magic  place  all  it  does  gaze  upon 
The  vital  sight  and  want  of  livingness. 
Then  having  power  to  much  within  thy  gird 
Shall  life  outstretch  at  thy  wise-spoken  word. 


[38] 


BEATRICE    D'ESTE    TO    A   LOVER 

ENCHANTED  wine  you  might  have  found, 
A  draught  of  potent,  magic  Spring 
That  old  grey  days  once  more  might  sing, 
And  youth  with  fresher  notes  should  sound. 

Had  you  faint  touch  of  alchemy 
That  lonely  thing,  one  selfless  thought, 
Much  loveliness  you  might  have  brought 
Through  the  dark  night,  Eternity. 

For  heart,  not  mind,  our  tutor  is ; 
All  logic  by  its  warmth  is  known. 
Francis  of  old  went  not  alone 
Midst  lepers;  love  was  ever  his. 

We  shall  be  children  to  attain 
That  Heaven  which  on  earth  does  lie 
In  faith  to  see  abundantly 
One  lasting  beauty  with  stain. 

Ourselves  of  choice  do  hourly  mold 
The  circumstance,  the  daily  thing, 
The  vision;  or  at  length  we  bring 
Unto  life's  shrine,  a  word  untold. 


[39] 


How  comes  a  child  to  Paradise 
But  by  his  simple,  eager  prayer? 
Take  you  of  earth  such  earthly  care 
That  you  see  not,  that  yet  have  eyes? 

Had  you  a  wish  to  see  me  bring 
Across  far  seas  of  thoughts  roving 
A  thousand  gleaming  sails  of  ships, 
A  freight  of  human  lore  bearing 
Rich  you  had  been,  and  peace  your  fate. 
With  beggared  faith,  you  come  too  late. 


[40  J 


THE   SUICIDE 

SHE  seemed  to  us  a  child  lost  in  the  market 
place, 

And  wondering,  and  quite  unseeing  in  the  din 
How  there  were  brutal  faces  near,  and  how  the 

dust 
Of   many   careless   trampling   feet   hung   heavy 

there. 
We  saw  her  turning  in  the  midst  of  heat  and 

sound, 

Laughing  and  curious  at  the  laden  stalls  of  wares. 
Loving  the  brightly  colored  things  and  touching 

them 
As  she  passed  lightly  by, — and  nodding  now  and 

then, 
Gaily,  and  with  a  pleased  surprise,  at  some  new 

face 
That  looked  on  her  in  friendliness;  for,  like  a 

child, 
She  saw  no  strangers  anywhere,  but  people  much 

alike  .    .    . 

A  shifting  pageant,  wonderful  and  ever  new; 
And  in  the  darkening  street  she  moved  'till  dusk 

alone, 
Not    minding    much   the    jostling    throng    that 

pressed  toward  home, 
Though  sometimes  even  she  found  their  touch 

rough, 
Brushing  her  aside,  unheeding  all  save  the  late 

hour. 


[41] 


But  when  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  streets, 

and  stalls 
Were   closed,   and   eager   footsteps   turned   into 

sure  ways, 
She  felt  that  she  was  tired,  and  saw  the  darkness 

creep  on  her 
Like  something  nameless:  and  she  knew  she  was 

alone, 
And  quite  apart  from  those  who  hurried  home 

so  busily. 

So,  very  tired,  and  seeing  in  the  sudden  dark 
A    strange    conspiracy    beyond    her    grasp,    she 

closed  her  eyes, 
As  frightened  children  do,   and  trembling,  fell 

asleep. 


[42] 


TO    A    SEAMAN 
Alfred  Bjorja 

I   SAW  you  come  and  go  with  quiet  mien 
All-heeding  and  attendant  on  the  ruling  mind 
To  bend  your  ship's  desire  to  sea  or  wind 
Or  thwart,  in  fate,  a  freakish  mood  of  spleen. 
At  times  of  calm,  you  stood,  a  granite  man 
Symbolic,  carved  against  the  western  sky 
Peering  from  'midst  the  bows  as  to  descry 
With  eyes  to  treachery  trained,  the  eternal  plan. 
I  marvelled  at  your  fortitude  and  selfless  will  .  .  . 
Unquestioning  you  moved  as  in  a  sick  dream's 

world 
When  seas  grew  murderous  and  a  great  wind 

hurled 

Tempests  of  ghoulish  hate  against  your  skill. 
And  then  one  day  you  told  me  how,  afar, 
You  knew  a  ship  with  forty-seven  sail 
And  how  the  moonlight,  gleaming  fairy  pale 
Lighted  each  swelling  sail  and  singing  spar. 
I  thought  that  never  was  fidelity 
So  mingled  with  a  lover's  tender  artistry. 


[43] 


NEUROSES 
The  Ghost 

WITH  groping  hands  I  sought  for  some  dear 
thing 

Known  well  to  me  but  distant  as  a  dream 
Or  followed,  half-afraid,  a  dancing  fitful  gleam 
Of  some  bright  joy  I  knew  must  color  bring 
To  wan  grey  days — or  light  a  level  path 
My  feet  had  trod  for  lo !  these  aimless  years — 
A  path  to  one  irresolute,  of  tears 
And  all  the  plaint  of  a  dead  soul's  piteous  wrath. 
But  never  could  make  mine  one  single  loveliness 
Or  once  see  through  the  stifling  vaporous  wall 
That  barred   from   my  vague  touch  the   sense 

of  all 

Warm  human-kind  or  simple  blessedness. 
Held  captive  in  a  fainting  spirits'  tomb, 
My  courage  sickened  and  I  chose  this  doom. 


[44] 


THE    UNDYING 

LIFE — in  one  hour  you  burdened  me 
With  fleet  mockeries  and  ghost-grey  memory. 

At  your  touch  I  saw,  as  at  magic  words 
A  world  of  spreading  green,  a  plain 
Of  golden  haze,  where  soaring  birds 
Taxed  the  heart  with  melody's  pain. 
And  sat  I  goddess-like,  throned  and  serene 
On  a  still  mountain  height,  set  in  purple  cloud. 
Where  lay  the  world  before  me — As  a  queen 
I  viewed  this  gem — As  a  queen,  throne-proud. 
And  you,  radiant  as  a  spring-time  sun, 
As  a  sun  blinding  to  unvisioned  mortal  eye — 
But  was  I  mortal  then,  or  was  I  one 
With  laughing  gods — No  mortal,  I. 

Two  demi-gods,  bright  with  beauty  of  youth 

Reading  the  past  and  all  that  was  to  be 

In  the  depth  of  awakened  eye.    Truth, 

Deep  wisdom,  saw  we,  and  serenity. 

All  of  beauty  we  had  heard  or  thought 

Or  lived — all  of  wonder  we  had  ever  known, 

All,  time-laden,  we  had  brought 

From  that  far  land,  whence  we  came  alone. 

And  sought  the  spirit  of  ancient  lore,  that  sings 

Of  other  lives  and  loves  that  die, 

That  we,  knowing  many  things, 

Should  live,  in  faith  and  guarded  mystery. 


[45] 


Over  an  April  sky 
A  light-blown  cloud 
Cold  mists  for  a  shroud. 

No  one  knows 

Where  swiftly  goes 

The  fragrance  of  the  rose. 

Where  goes  the  soul  of  music,  in  chord  and  chime, 

The  laughter  of  a  child; 

That  short  allotted  time — 

Harmony  of  all  tones,  sweet  and  wild, 

Time  when  pulse  and  eye  and  hand 

Tell  in  one  short  and  poignant  breath 

More  than  mind  has  ever  planned — 

Go  these  things  down  to  death? 

To  a  still  black  river  of  death, 

Whence  rises  a  chill  grey  cloud 

To  meet  a  barren  dawn,  that  cries  aloud 

To  Earth — Beauty  to  me  restoreth! 

It  was  never  so. 

We  know,  not  knowing  how  we  know, 

All  we  have  felt  or  dreamed  on  earth  shall  grow 

Into  the  web  of  time,  and  shall  before  us  go, 

Till  myriad-sensed,  we  fixed  shall  be 

As  tranquil  stars,  in  the  long  night,  eternity. 

1916. 


[46] 


SYMBOLIC 

GREY  clouds  have  gathered  and  have  hung 
Day-long  with  leaden  weight,  as  malice 
They  had  felt,  so  to  hide  the  sun, 
No  life  is  in  the  air,  nor  do 
The  leaves  stir,  as  when  the  breeze  taunts  them. 
Toward  a  weary  night,  the  day  has  spun  herself, 
Half  fainting,  she  closes  skeptic  eyes. 

And  now  through  darkening  mists 

Break  forth  a  hundred  waves  of  gold. 

Giving  new- world  glimpses  of  radiance: 

In  pure  and  aureate  light  are  consecrate 

A  spire,  a  roof,  a  village  now  re-born, 

As  on  a  high  and  fore-told  hill  were  set 

A  magic  city,  so  the  twilight  change  is  wrought. 


[47] 


THE    MOTHER 

ALL  night  long  she  moved  not 
Nor  left,  close  by  the  bedside, 
The  low  chair:  but  watched  the  flickering  rays 
Light  wistfully  the  small  white  face. 

Grief  drowned  in  grief,  and  beaten, 
Faith  listless,  hope  forgotten  of  the  past, 
Anguish  beyond  her  frozen  world, 
Passive,  she  watched  her  child. 

No  tears  had  she,  nor  any  bitter  plaint. 
The  childish  hands  were  still,  and  so  was  she. 
Her  one  life's  flower  was  broken, 
And  dead,  and  far  more  dead,  was  she. 


[48] 


THE   LIVING  DEAD 

CREATURES  of  shade  and  cold  half-light 

\^x  Dwellers  of  tombs  and  ways  withdrawn 

Mystically  filling  the  living  dawn 

With  ghostly  hint  of  strange  foresight  .    .    . 

These  quiet  ones  at  day  do  cease 

Their  hold  .   .   .  And  home  toward  lifeless  peace. 

Not  such  we  fear ;  the  visitants  dread 
Are  those  dear  living — more  distant 
Than  a  foreign  land,  whose  loved  implant 
Shall  sorrow  bear — the  living  dead! 
These  come  like  dreams  of  shadowed  lands 
And  touch  us  nightly  with  regretful  hands. 


[49] 


REST 

YOU  are  the  shrine  to  which  I  come — 
A  cooling  spring, 

Where  tyrant  moods  and  fevers  vain 
Are  given  still  repose:  nor  stirred. 
Constant  and  still  are  you,  nor  made  to  stir. 
You  hold  glimpses  of  truth,  immutable, 
That  ebbs  not,  like  waters, 
Nor  rises  to  the  moon  in  old  self-seeking 
But  knows  dim  and  quiet  ways, 
Remote  from  earth. 

Here  is  deep  rest,  and  shadow  as  of  woodland,- 
A  pause  in  summer's  heat, 
A  lull  in  human  stress, 
Here,  at  your  feet, 
Grant  me  deep  sleep ! 


[50] 


WASTE 

LIKE  sparks  borne  upward  on  a  hungry  flame, 
And  jewelled  but  one  moment  in  the  dark, 
Then  breathing  back  into  the  night  the  same 
Brief  ardor  of  their  birth,  so  my  thoughts  rise. 
For  life,  a  monster  flame,  with  fabled  greed, 
Thus  bears  me  on,  devouring  good  and  ill, 
Splendidly  loyal  to  an  atavistic  creed, 
Unheeding  any  plaint  that  aught  be  spared. 
And,  as  the  spreading  evil  tongues  possess 
First  one,  and  then  another  blessed  shrine, 
Light  eagerly,  then  char,  each  loveliness, 
These  wistful  wraiths,  like  souls  released,  ascend. 
And  deeds  conceived  to  crimson  all  the  skies 
With  brilliant  pageant-blaze,  and  guide  its  wrath, 
As  fleeting  as  such  ghostly  sparks,  arise 
Above  the  havoc  flame,  and  glow,  and  die. 


[51] 


TO 


YOU  were  a  voice  heard  in  dreams, 
Heard  dimly,  and  buried 
In  the  dark  caverns  of  sleep. 
Buried  until  a  time  might  come 
When  need  should  call  it  forth. 
— For  no  thing  in  dreams  is  lost. 
And  the  voice  spoke  of  peace, 
"Be  not  troubled,  my  child; 
Neither  have  fear. 
For  in  your  breast 
Is  a  giant  in  fetters. 
If  you  will  release  him, 
He  will  do  your  bidding. 
Hidden  in  you  are  many  wonders; 
When  the  time  comes,  they  will  unfold. 
Do  not  stifle  them  in  fear. 
Live  greatly. 

Learn  to  live  as  a  swimmer 
Who  abandons  himself  to  treache-ous  waves, 
And  finds  himself  borne  up. 
Do  not  fear,  my  child; 
And  know  always  that  I  am  here." 
Thus  you  spoke  to  me  silently, 
And  your  message  was  borne 
Down  windy  caverns  of  sleep — 
Strange  and  alien  vistas. 
And  a  faint  remembrance 
Filled  waking  hours  with  mystery, 
With  tidings  as  a  shadow, 


[52] 


That  spoke  of  an  approaching  form. 

And  when  the  dream  was  fulfilled 

And  the  fore-shadowed  hours  appeared, 

They  were  in  turn 

Like  fevered  pictures  in  a  dream. 

For  they  were  filled  with  discord 

And  with  ghoulish  figures, 

And  menacing  tongues. 

And  then  I  heard  your  voice,  antiphonal, 

Rising  and  falling  in  a  conquering  rhythm, 

And  at  length  rising  above 

The  savage  discord. 

And  again  you  said, 

"Do  not  fear,  my  child; 

Know  always  that  I  am  here." 

And  I  knew  I  listened  to  words  of  love 

— Of  a  great  far-seeing  love, 

That  harbored  no  images  of  self 

But  tended  as  an  acolyte  his  shrine, 

The  services  of  deep  devotion. 

And  my  heart  leaped  up 

When  I  heard  aright 

The  words  that  had  run,  like  a  minor  melody, 

Through  a  maze  of  days  and  nights. 

It  was  as  if  silver  trumpets 

Had  proclaimed  a  glorious  victory. 

And  my  heart  echoed  and  answered 

With  a  single  cry, 

As  that  of  a  child  who  was  lost, 

And  finds  again  the  path  of  love. 


[53] 


LISA  GIOCONDA 

IN  the  twilight  of  beauty  you  sit  by  old  rocks 
Where  the  evening  of  time  hangs  a  mantle  of 

cloud 

And  shadows  of  purple,  dusk-tinged,  as  a  veil — 
Strange    enchantress,    your    dim    secret    magic 
enshroud. 

You  have  looked  on  far  shores  where  rare  splen 
dours  arose 

And  have  felt  yourself  sway  on  the  tide  of  desire 

Toward  new  seas  whence  came  ships  from  ports 
charmed  and  unknown — 

From  the  great  Renaissance  and  its  consummate 
fire. 

You  have  voyaged  time-free  to  all  lands  and  all 

climes, 
Through  the  ages  have  been  as  a  seer  without 

age: 
You  have  known  the  meek  heart  of  St.  Francis 

or  Anne 
And  have  trembled  war-girt  with  a  monarch's 

high  rage. 


[54] 


A  story  is  told  of  a  princess  long  dead 
Through  centuries  of  lore  in  sarcophagus  found — 
As  of  old  radiant  still  with  a  grace  from  which 

death 
Has    fled    shamed — and    her    beauty    is    yours, 

mystery-crowned. 

As  a  prophet  of  youth  clothed  in  garments  of  time 
With  faith  visioned  and   calm  you  foresee  all 

strange  ends 
And  await  that  far  shore  where  the  sought  is 

the  found 
And  the  child  with  old  craft  to  a  new  peace 

ascends. 


[55] 


TO   A  WOOD-THRUSH 

OF  dim  and  twilight  ways  you  give  us  sight 
When  slowly  all  that  still  is,  and  withdrawn, 
And  mellowed  after  days  long — wearied  dawn 
Finds  shelter  in  the  hour  of  coming  night. 
And  now  you  magically  at  dusk  create 
With  elfin  silver  flute,  a  dim  forecast, 
Lost  in  its  weight  of  tranquil  thought,  of  massed 
And  shadowed  groves,  where  old  gods  meditate. 

Bewitched  and  still  they  pause  erewhile  to  free 
Unto  your  charmed  cadences  a  vast 
And  myriad  sense.    High  captives  till  has  passed 
That  brief  and  poignant  spell ; — as  mortals,  we 
Do  know  alike  a  moment  blessed,  and  live 
That  time,  your  cool  and  faery  voice  does  give. 


[56] 


CHALLENGE 

STRANGE,  still — this  thing — that  you, 
Who  shatter  with  a  careless  hand 
Each  beauty  of  a  gentle  hue 
And  mutely  murderous  still  stand 
Should  thus  exempt  from  penance  be, 
Drowning  in  sense  all  sensibility. 


[57] 


A   MEDIAEVAL   PORTRAIT 

TWILIGHT  of  beauty !    Gentle  repose 
After  a  youth's  bright  noon; 
When  soft  forebodes  the  tranquil  moon 
Of  night.     Purple  shadows  close 
Around  that  still-poised  head  .    .    . 
Setting  perfect  for  a  queen  of  hidden  ways 
Who  likes  not  the  inquietude  of  day's 
Swift  images,  through  tortured  fancy  led.  .    . 
You  are  a  harp,  with  muted  golden  tone, 
Touched  by  the  fingers  of  stars,  on  hills,  alone. 


[58] 


TO 


AH!  Sing  to  me  until  senescent  stars 
Fall  wearied  at  the  sound  of  an  old  plaint 
More  sad  than  time  ...  a  sonorous  chant  grown 

faint 

At  dawn  ...  Of  souls  in  bondage,  and  of  scars 
Born  of  the  spirit's  groaning  fabled  yoke. 
Now  let  me  hear  Delilah's  subtle  voice 
Of  faithless  passion,  murmuring  rejoice 
In  scarlet  victory,  'ere  day  awoke. 
Sing  me  words,  tear-edged,  as  with  Isolde's  lyre 
Lulled  Tristan  in  a  perfumed,  swooning  sleep; 
And  cast  your  spell  of  evocation  deep 
About  me,  like  an  evanescent  fire. 
Ah!  golden  vessel  wrought  to  hold  the  wine 
Of  very  life,  a  little  while  be  mine! 


[59] 


I 


FORGIVENESS 

F  I  should  see  you  turning  where  that  old 
path  winds 

My  heart  would  leap  with  ancient  joy  and  cer 
tain  pride, 

And  for  an  instant  I'd  forget  a  gulf  more  wide 

Than  centuries  .  .  .  that  lies  between  two  faith 
less  minds. 

And  I  should  see  with  older  and  with  truer  sight 

The  unchanged  vestures  of  an  inward  unchanged 
grace, 

That  meant  for  me — how  long  it  seems — a  hidden 
place 

Of  peace,  and  ever  in  the  darkness  a  sure  light. 

Ah!  If  I  held  that  vision  through  the  night  till 
dawn 

You  might  return  again  to  wake  me  from  a  dream 

More  real  than  death — that  only  dims  the  fitful 
gleam 

Of  earthy  lamps,  when  earth's  senescent  glow 
is  gone. 

And  like  a  homing  bird  that  wings,  long-lost, 
apart, 

My  love  would  swiftly  rise  and  nestle  in  your 
heart. 


[60] 


NOCTURNE    AFTER    CHOPIN 

PIPING  of  a  hidden  lute 
Faery,  drowsing,  distance-hushed 
Colored  with  a  twilight  note 
Of  massing  waters,  now  dusk-brushed 
Bearing  shadowed  messages 
Of  other  peace  and  stiller  rest, — 
Calm  that  fairer  dawn  presages 
Fairer  dawn  and  stiller  rest. 
Yield  thyself  to  magic  hands, 
Walk  nightward  where  white  beauty  gleams ! 
This  shall  be  a  dreamless  night 
Haunted  by  a  thousand  dreams. 


[61] 


THE    ISLES    OF    THE    BLEST 
Tao 

AS  waves  that  lap  a  strange  and  mortal  shore 
Dim  music  pulses  on  the  shores  of  time 
Where  tranquil  and  immortal  dwell  enisled 
And  quired  in  golden  solitude,  the  blest. 

They  rise,  rise  ever,  past  labor  and  longing, 
Past  labor  and  longing,  here  dwell  the  blest. 

They  burn  with  the  light  of  peace,  the  blest, 
Where,  knowing  all  and  striving  never, 
They  pause,  'ere  the  white  dawn  of  Paradise. 
Attuned  to  time,  the  blest,  where  the  rhythm 
Of  peace  is  one  with  the  swell  of  timeless  waves, 
Like  music,  lapping  on  eternal  shores. 


[62] 


DEC  12  1985 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  565  471     o 


